


Dark Magic, Pure Souls

by ThatDamnKennedyKid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Down Scott McCall, Aged-Up Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Good Peter Hale, Mates Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Retcon Timeline, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, The Hale Fire (Teen Wolf)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatDamnKennedyKid/pseuds/ThatDamnKennedyKid
Summary: Stiles had been Melissa's babysitter since she was ten, and she was pretty sure the nurse's son had the beginnings of a crush on her. She was half-grateful, half-crushed that it was Melissa who called to tell her not only that Claudia had been hospitalized, but that she was likely never coming out either.But the day she walked into her mother's long-term room was the day she heard him for the first time.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 31
Kudos: 277





	1. Hospital Visits0

For as long as she'd been alive, her mother and Melissa McCall had been friends. She'd been over many a time to the house, keeping little Scotty occupied while their mothers chatted and caught up. The little toddler had been delightful to play with and took no end of fascination with her shorn-short hair, rubbing his hands against it just to giggle at the bristly feeling. 

Of course, that had been before Rafael had thrown him down the stairs in a drunken stupor. 

After that, Mr. McCall disappeared from Beacon Hills and Melissa asked her softly to help her out and be Scott's babysitter after school. She'd agreed readily and been a permanent feature of the McCall house since. Melissa was like a second mother to her, someone who loved her nearly as much as her own parents and treated her like a daughter. It was Melissa her dad had to thank for giving her an addiction to curly fries. 

And maybe, when she picks up the phone and hears Melissa's voice, she doesn't immediately assume the worst. 

_"Stiles,"_ Melissa said, much too gently, _"I need you to come to the hospital. You can bring Scott, but I need you to come."_

"Why? What's going on?"

 _"..."_ Melissa takes a breath. _"Your mother's been brought in. Your father's already on the way, but you need to come."_

"I'll be there in a few minutes."

 _"Don't speed, drive safe."_ Melissa reflexively warns. _"The last thing I need is your mother up here with me and you down in the ER._ "

"Okay." She hung up thoughtlessly, grabbing her keys and jacket. "Scott! Come down and get dressed! We're leaving!"

He popped his head over the railing at the top of the stairs. "Cool. Where to?"

She swallowed. "The hospital."

* * *

Stiles was nineteen when her mother was hospitalized, and boy did she feel like anything but a child walking into that room. 

Claudia had collapsed, the doctor had informed her, and when they couldn't figure out why, they started to run tests. The diagnosis had left her father in tears, barely able to stand, and she had instructed the faithful new deputy Parrish to escort him home, that she would stay with Claudia overnight, to wait for when (if) she woke up.

Melissa's shifts were usually day ones, so with a sympathetic look, she told her babysitter not to worry about Scott, that she'd take him home and prepare him to be on his own the next week or so. She'd thanked her without really thinking about it, dimming the lights and closing the door, sitting on the window sill and staring at her mother. 

It was deep in the night when she was startled awake by the overnight nurse coming in to wash down the man in the curtained off half of the room. In her daze, she hadn't realized her mom was sharing a space. The overnight nurse either didn't realize or didn't care that she was there, because she swung open the curtains, changed his bandages efficiently, did a cursory wipe down, checked his IVs, covered his waist and left again. 

As soon as she laid eyes on him, it started. 

_I wonder if anyone else survived._ Came the whisper, almost too low and soft for her to catch it. _Derek wasn't in the house, he might have made it way. Did Cora make it thorough that window? Did Laura manage to break down the door?_

Something told her the voice - a male one, exhausted, angry, bitter and bored - wasn't something anyone else would hear even if she asked them to listen for it. She tried anyway. "Hello?"

_It's only been a month. I've got to get a grip on myself. Think of something interesting. Anything other than the itch in your skin and your dead family._

"Dead family?" She slunk closer to him, stopping at the edge of the bed where she could faintly make out the skin under the bandages. _Burn marks._

 _Who's there?!_ A beat of silence. _Congratulations. You're hearing things when you're comatose and your own ears don't even respond._

She tore her gaze away from him and glanced around the room, looking for someone to appear and incriminate her for creeping on a comatose man in the bed next to her dying mom. 

_This is fucked up_. She thought, but she reaches down and laid her hand on the side of his chest not covered in gauze and medical sealing plastic. 

An intense rush of roiling emotions collided with her, and she almost recoiled. 

_You're-_ The voice she could hear jumps up in volume, as though it's talking directly into her head. The emotions cut down to merely surprise. Complete, earth-shattering surprise, but merely surprise nonetheless. _I wasn't hearing things._

_I'm pretty sure that's my line, big guy._

_I- I suppose it is. Are you in a coma too?_

_Nah. Mom's dying in bed next to you, though._

_Oh. I suppose there would be no pleasant reason for you to be in this room with me, would there?_

_Not exactly. And the nurse that keeps up on your IVs doesn't look too chatty._

_Are you?_

_I have ADHD and a thirst for knowledge. I never shut up._

_Thank God. Please, can you just keep talking? Tell me about yourself, about what you do, who you are, where you live, what you watched recently on television. Spoil an entire book cover to cover. Something to fill this dreadful silence._

_Yeah, I guess it is pretty empty in here, like an apartment designed by a minimalist goth billionaire. My head's to small for all the competition for space going on in there. So many occupants._

Relief floods across the connection and it feels icy and cool, refreshing and calming against the heated desperation that had been plaguing him earlier. _Keep going._

_Can I get a name first? I don't wanna just call you "dude" or "buddy". I am touching your nipple right now, after all._

A rich laugh echoes in her head. _Peter. And you, sweetheart?_

_Stiles._

_Stiles?_

_My real first name is Polish and I'm not super intent on listening to you butcher it. Besides, only my mom calls me that._

_Alright. Any more questions before you begin, Stiles?_

She likes the way he says her name. _Just a warning to prepare for lots of rambling. I do it a lot and no amount of adderall can quell it._

_That's fine. Speak as much as you'd like, about anything, for as long as you can._

_Okay. Stuff to talk about, stuff to talk about. I'm not sure how much you know about universities and stuff like that, but I've been looking around at different options around Beacon Hills. Speaking of, are you from here? Do you know any schools I should look into? Doesn't matter, that wasn't even where I wanted to start-_

* * *

Melissa knows the longer Claudia remains asleep, the higher the likelihood that she would never wake up. The worst part is knowing that Stiles knows that too. 

It's both heartwarming and heartbreaking to see Stiles show up promptly every night after she's done taking care of Scott, who's realistically old enough to look after himself but is so used to Stiles. She stays late into the morning hours, completely overnight on the weekends. Melissa knows she quit her part-time dayjob teaching lacrosse at the rec centre with a blessing from her boss and well-wishes for her mother to recover from her coworkers and the parents of the kids she taught. 

Deputy Parrish has taken over making sure John doesn't drink himself to death, so Melissa tries to make sure that Stiles is okay. The problem is that Stiles has always been a pillar of strength, both in the Stilinski and McCall household, and Melissa is certain the young teenager doesn't actually know how to let go of that kind of responsibility. Stiles has been a self-sufficient creature taking care of others who should have been taking care of her for too long, and Melissa's not sure how she can step in and help without driving the young woman away. 

What she gets told, and sticks around to notice, is that the half of the room _not_ belonging to her mother has the curtain always pulled back, a chair a fixture between the two beds. 

Stiles' nightly routine seems to be to greet her mother with a brief - but rapid-fire, as though she's used to being ignored - run down of her day, a kiss on the forehead, a double-check of her vitals (which she always frowns at, because she's smart enough to deduce that they are steadily declining), then she sits down in the chair, takes the hand of the man in the bed next to her (Peter Hale, a check of the patient chart reveals with a shudder), then goes still staring at his face. She still blinks and breathes, but she just stares at him. The shadows in the dim room make her arms look greyer than they really are, and they grant the Hale survivor a gentle glow, as though he was finally able to wrestle through the pain and feel comfortable. 

* * *

In the later months, Melissa finds Stiles sitting cross-legged in the chair, one hand holding her mother's, the other holding Peter's. Her eyes are closed, like she's meditating, and she just sits there for hours. 

Melissa doesn't mention it to John or Parrish, and tells the other nurses to leave it alone, for the year it takes for Claudia to die.

* * *

The night after Claudia's funeral, Stiles walks into the hospital again, going directly for the room her mother had been in on autopilot. 

"Stiles, what are you doing here?"

She stops at the door, blinking rapidly as she processes Melissa's presence. "Going into this room?"

Melissa cups her face. "I know it's hard, Stiles, but I can't let you wallow in this room."

Stiles' eyes wetten, but she doesn't cry. The fact a teenager has to know that level of self-control breaks Melissa's heart. "I know. But she wasn't the only one in there."

"Sweetie-"

"It's been a year and no one's come to see him."

Melissa - knowing full well the reason why - only nods with pursed lips. 

"It's not right that he's here, alone, all the time. Even the nurses move around him like he's not even real." She straightens, readying for a fight. "If no one else is going to be there for him, I will be."

"You don't have to be concerned with other people right now, Stiles. You need to take care of yourself."

"I have practically lived with this man for the last year." Stiles shakes her head. "Don't fight me on this, Melissa. I'm twenty, and I'm going to do it anyway."

"Does your father even know you're here?"

Stiles opened the door with a huff. "He knows the name of the whiskey he likes and where the couch is. Whether I'm there or not is irrelevant." She glanced up one last time before she shut herself in the dim room. 

Melissa watched her through the door, where she paused at the empty bed, then pulled the curtain across to shield her and Peter from the void space. She sat down in her chair, pulling it closer. She hesitates there for a moment, before she lays her head down on the mostly-healed torso of Peter, holding tight to his hand. The arm tucked underneath her, holding onto Peter, looks grey. 

* * *

Melissa lets it go for over a year, her concern only mounting the more closed off Stiles becomes to her intervening words of wisdom. Scott's research for her tells her that the deadlines to apply to universities and colleges have now passed by two years in a row. Claudia's death could excuse a gap year, especially with the way John spiralled down, but she's starting to think that Stiles has developed a dependency on a man who may never wake up, who she doesn't know from Adam. She doesn't know what's going on in Stiles' head, and Scott says she acts completely normal during the hours she spends after work at the rec centre with him. To Scott and the rest of the world, Stiles is as she's always been, a little weird and a lot friendly, excitable and strangely knowledgeable about a little of everything. 

And true to her word, John spends more time at the bottom of a bottle than he does wondering why his daughter's bed hasn't seen use in the better part of two years, why her room doesn't really smell like her anymore, and why the only dishes mysteriously washed and put away belong only to him. 

"You can't keep doing this." She tells Stiles one morning. 

Stiles doesn't meet her gaze. "Stop me and I swear I will never talk to you again, Mrs. McCall."

Melissa's so shocked at the frigid tone, the entirely unexpected threat, that she just lets Stiles walk out.

She calls John and Parrish that afternoon, when Stiles is at home with Scott, and finally divulges her secret that she has the sinking suspicion she shouldn't have let fester.

* * *

For two weeks, the Sheriff and the Deputy, under Melissa's guidance, watch Stiles go through her nightly routine. They watch the familiar way she adjusts Peter's IVs, checks the monitors, straightens or changes the sheets, adjusts his head and the pillow under it. They watch as she shaves him that Saturday, very, very careful. The nurses move around her like she's a feature of the room, and John's not sure how he could have missed her becoming one. 

Stiles doesn't talk to Peter's body, though she responds when the nurses ask her questions. And then, when she's done taking care of him, she grabs his hand, twines their fingers, and lays down on the edge of the bed, her free hand playing on the muscles of the captured arm, just staring at him like they're in a world all their own. 

While they watch Stiles, Melissa has taken to looking into Peter, his medical records and his family history to see if there's something about him that draws Stiles' attention. She can't say whether Stiles knows about the Hale fire, since that alone would be enough to make Stiles curious about him. She discovers in the files the actual extent of the damage Peter suffered once he was pulled from the wreckage, and she's more than surprised to realize, peering at him the next morning, to find that there are no scars anywhere on his body. The skin grafts alone should have left their marks, but they're gone too - no evidence they'd ever been there. Stiles has even taken to styling his hair as best she can, cutting it away where it would get matted and leaving a floof of bronze-brown up top. 

Stiles turned twenty-two less than a month ago with no acknowledgement, from anyone in her life, and when Melissa tells John that, all three adults are stricken. Since Claudia fell ill, Stiles was less than a memory to everyone in her sphere. 

"No wonder she's drifted to the only stable figure in her life." Parrish said softly, not intending to be harmful, though John recoiled like he'd been punched. Melissa was horrified for a long moment that he was going to throw up on the floor, but he pulled himself back together and left the building. Parrish apologized, trailing the Sheriff home. 

The next day, an hour and some after Stiles had arrived, John appears. He looks stern and decided, also sober, with Parrish once again at his heels. 

"I don't think this is the best course of action, Sheriff." Parrish tries, but John only nods sharply. 

"Noted."

Melissa intercepts them. "What are you going to do?"

"Drag her home, if I have to."

He enters the room, Parrish just behind him, at the door. Melissa is on the other side, biting the joint of her thumb because she has a gut feeling this is going to go badly. 

"Stiles."

Stiles is obviously awake, she always is when she's with Peter. She's also sitting up today, visibly ignoring them. 

"Stiles." John barks, more aggressive, only to be ignored again. "Stiles! _Stiles!_ "

Melissa and Parrish both wince - Parrish at the abrupt shouting, Melissa because she knows Stiles _hates_ yelling. She can't help but peer into the room over Parrish's shoulder, concerned for all three of them. When waving his hand in front of her face yields only a blink, John loses his patience altogether and grabs her around the waist, pulling her away. 

As soon as there is no skin to skin contact with Peter, Stiles bursts to life, immediately fighting and yelling. 

" _No!"_ She yells, legs kicking out in front of her. "No! You have to let me go! He doesn't know, I can't leave him! I promised, I _promised_ to fill the silence!"

Stiles is making less than no sense, struggling to violently that she manages to wind John enough to wriggle out of his grip. Parrish steps in as backup, much stronger than her father. His more determined grip makes Stiles even more crazed and panicked, her eyes wild and her gaze singular. Melissa is the only one who notices Peter's sharp jerk every time she cries out, and she's now more nervous and concerned than ever. 

"I won't go! I can't leave him! He needs me, he'll go crazy!"

"You leave him everyday!" John shouts back, furious even though he's barely caught his breath. 

She snarls - honest to God _snarls_ \- and there's a palpable build up of something in the room. Peter whimpers, chest flexing and hands twitching. There's a burst of energy and both Parrish and John get slammed into the walls behind them. 

Stiles rushes over to Peter and the instant her hand makes contact with his cheek, his eyes snap open (irises alarmingly red) and his arms clutch her tightly to his body. 

"I'm here, I'm here." She soothes, tucking Peter's head into her shoulder, where he immediately hides in the flannel, breathing deeply and squeezing her tightly. 

"Stiles." He manages, and his voice is broken and cracked from disuse. 

"I'm right here, Peter. I promise." She takes all of it in stride, _like she was expecting it,_ and coos some nonsense about fish to him that makes him laugh. 

They pull back and his eyes are the blue they're supposed to be (was Melissa seeing things? possibly, this day had gotten very long). He inspects her face, the unkempt and growing length of her hair, the moles dotting her skin, and he smiles. "You're more beautiful than you told me, sweetheart."

She beamed back, arms around his neck, looking more like the Stiles Claudia would have recognized than she had looked in three years. "Your sparkling personality already won be over."

John recovers from being blown across the room with some help from Parrish, who looks baffled, and his expression is furious. 

The Hale fire happened a month before Claudia was admitted, which means that Peter would have had to know Stiles as a barely-legal teen to know her this comfortably at all. 

"Once you're out of the hospital, Hale, we're going to talk."

Stiles wheels on him. "You're going to do no such thing."

"Stay out of this."

"Stay out of what? My own life?" She snorts in derision and disdain. "Get out."

"Stiles-"

"Contrary to everyone's opinion, the _facts_ are that I'm a grown-ass woman and what I do, and who I do it with, are none of your concern." She turns away, going back to petting Peter's face, who just looks between the two like he only vaguely knows what's going on but it putting the pieces together. 

"Of course you're my concern! You're my daughter!" 

Stiles wheels around on him, that tension in the air building again. "Then where the fuck have you been?! I'll tell you - stumbling around the house, piss fucking drunk, unable to remember whether you've even laid eyes on me at any point in the last six months. At the reception for the funeral, you threw a fucking bottle at me! I'm just your little house elf, who cleans and makes sure there's shit in the fridge for you to eat when you surface from your stupor. Fuck you!"

Peter pulls her back into his arms and she collapses there, like that resentment was all that was keeping her standing. There are no tears in her eyes, just dry sobs caught in her throat that she won't let out. 

"Get out." She whispers, but silence echoes her words like a shout. 

Parrish takes over and guides John away, the look in his eye saying he'll right John, but Stiles is on Melissa.

"He needs clothes." Is all Stiles says when it's just Melissa left.

"Okay honey. I'll be back."

* * *

Peter is released from the hospital the next day, and it's Stiles who comes to collect him. If he has any other relatives, there is no way to contact them for him and he doesn't ask them to try. He seems content leaving with her. 

Melissa lays her hand over Stiles' as Peter collects what was salvaged of his ID from the back offices with another nurse. She's careful to keep the contact light and untethered, making it Stiles' choice to pull away or not. When all the young woman does is look at her with a calculating gaze, Melissa takes it as permission to speak. 

"You're the smartest woman I know, Stiles." She smiles. "I know you don't make decisions impulsively, and whatever connection you have to Mr. Hale is your own. But I want you to know that I'm here, if you need someone. I'll help you however I can."

Stiles' gaze softens. "I know, Melissa. I trust you."

She pats her hand, again careful not to make her feel trapped. "Whatever you need."

"Just- tell Scott that I won't be around for a little bit. He can still text me or whatever, but I won't be visiting for a while."

She nods. "I'll pass it along."

Peter emerges again, triumphantly holding up a minorly charred wallet that still has all his plastic inside of it. "They recovered it from my car, thank God."

"Right on." Stiles lights up, so open and unabashed around him. "Ready to go, then?"

"Yes. I'm interested in seeing this _Roscoe_ you told me about."

Melissa watches them go, trying to understand how he would have known about Roscoe when she only got that Jeep once Claudia was admitted.

* * *

John was patrolling when he saw the blue Jeep in the bank's parking lot. He pulled in across the street, keeping an eye on it. 

Twenty minutes later seen Stiles and Peter Hale emerge from the building. She didn't look like she was under any kind of distress, but he didn't trust it. How had Peter known her so well that three years later, she could run errands with him like they were old buddies? Had he entirely missed an older, powerful man messing around with his barely-legal daughter?

Even if he had, though, surely Claudia wouldn't have? He didn't know - she wasn't around anymore to ask. He wished she was, for once more than just for him. 

Stiles got in the driver's seat and Peter slid in the passengers, too graceful for a man fresh from a coma. If he hadn't seen the pictures Melissa had dug up, where Peter was barely alive and half-melted, he would hardly believe it happened at all. 


	2. Returns and Ruins

Roscoe rumbled to a janky halt at the end of the driveway and Stiles threw her into park, leaning over the steering wheel to get a better look at the place. Beside her, Peter was doing the same, taking a controlled breath that sounded like he was trying not to cry. 

"So, this is what became of it." He said softly, one hand braced on the dashboard. 

"Yeah, I guess so." She replied, even though - for once - he wasn't really talking to her. She glanced over at him, pursing her lips. "Are you sure you can do this? We don't have to be here."

"I need to know whether it can be recovered." He took a deep breath, shot her a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and forced himself out of the Jeep. She was quick to shut it off, hopping out of the vehicle to follow him as he approached the blackened, but standing walls that were being encroached on by the forest around them. 

He tested the stairs with a foot and the wood groaned, but held. He gingerly tested the one above it and when it held too, walked more confidently up to where the door was half-off its hinges, rusted into position. 

"It looks like the back half was either consumed or collapsed." She observed. 

"That makes sense. It was where the fire was set."

"Oh, that's right." She rubbed her arm sheepishly. "I forgot that you were, ya know, _there_."

He chuckled, glancing at her over his shoulder, eyes twinkling with humour. "I'd have at least thought having comatose conversations with me would keep that at the forefront of your mind."

"In my defense, I've been living the last two years since my mom died in a haze." She pointed out, not feeling any better at the sympathetic look he gave her. "And I'm pretty sure I mentioned that you were attractive, right?"

"Were, sweetheart?"' He crooned, navigating around a fallen beam. 

"Fine, _are_. Better? Jeez, grammar nazi."

"If you wanted to walk away, you had the perfect opportunity until two days ago. I was physically incapable of following you. Truth be told, I had no idea what you even looked like."

"Duh. Your eyes were closed."

He snorted, rolling his eyes, but then he caught a scent other than old, rotting beams and the rich musk of the woods. An animal, a human, muddled together. "Stiles, stay by me."

Obediently, seeming to sense his apprehension, she saddled up to his back, checking around herself cautiously. Her voice was low when she spoke next. "What do you sense?"

"Another werewolf." He answered. 

She pressed right up against him. "Like the thing I think is killing all those people in town?"

"I'm not certain. It doesn't smell like blood here, but then, the beast hasn't been wounded either."

"Not to my knowledge. They still think its an animal, but they can't even catch sight of it." She looked around again, looking for claw marks or disturbed debris. It was hard to tell what was and wasn't left over damage from the fire - the house was entirely wooden, save for the cobblestone basement where Peter had been trapped. She wasn't keen on going down there, and she would bet her dad's life on it that Peter wasn't either. 

He froze against her, stilling unnaturally. 

"Oh god. What's coming?" She plastered her back against his, eyes darting around the rubble. 

"I know that scent . . ." His breath was shaky, to scared to dare to hope. 

"Is that a good or a bad thing?"

Peter jerked forward, moving deeper into the house with easy, focused confidence. She scrambled to keep up, almost tripping herself on jagged or loose floorboards. She didn't want to be left alone in this monument to one of Beacon Hills' worst tragedies, even the forest unwilling to break the weird ambience. 

He pushed open a door in the last part of the house that wasn't collapsed and whatever was hiding inside jumped out at him, taking him to the ground. 

"Peter!" 

The black mass on top of the alpha wolf was blown off, thrown into a support beam that groaned ominously, unable to take any more abuse than it had already seen. 

"Stiles, no! Stop!" Peter grabbed her ankle, and the power she didn't even realize she was collecting manifesting in a grey mist at her fingertips disappearing. 

"What the hell." She gasped out, still scared in the situation and now a little bit scared of herself. 

Peter got to his feet, going over to the black mass stirring on the floor. He helped what was now revealed to be a man to his feet, bringing him back over to where Stiles still stood, petrified. The other man shook his head, clearing the ringing from his ears and blearily looking up at her. 

"You're strong." He managed, twisting to look at the man holding him up. "Uncle Peter?"

Peter set him down on the floor, back braced against the wall, with a watery smile. "Hey Derek. I'm so glad you're here."

Derek blinked a few times, then his gaze focused properly. "I'm not seeing things - it's really you."

Peter didn't even try to hide the tears. "Yeah, it is."

Derek jerked forward and Stiles was scared for a second that he was going to jump Peter again, but just threw his arms around his uncle's neck, tucking his face into the older man's neck. Peter did the same, rubbing his cheek against his nephew's.

| | | 

An hour later saw the two wolves sitting on the front steps, Stiles firmly parked on the hood of her Jeep. 

The two Hales had calmed down significantly, though Derek's eyes were still red-rimmed. They were sitting pressed hip to hip, Peter's arm slung over his nephew's shoulders like a security blanket. And perhaps it was - Peter needed someone to care for, to keep his own mind at bay, and Derek needed to be cared for. 

"Argent, you said?" She kicked her heels against the grill of the Jeep. 

Derek nodded. "Kate Argent."

Peter cocked his head. "Why?"

"One Chris Argent, his wife Victoria and their daughter Allison moved into Beacon Hills not too long ago." She mused. "Probably related."

"Chris?" Peter frowned. "He's Gerard's son - would be Kate's older brother."

"You know him?"

"We ran into each other on occasion." Peter frowned harder. "Putting down rogue omegas is never fun, and he was fine with accepting my help when it was clear I wasn't feral. Shot me first, though."

She hummed again. "Good thing I'm not a wolf, then."

Derek butted his head under Peter's chin. "Speaking of, how did you meet? She wasn't around before."

Peter sighed. "I'm not entirely sure. I was in a coma."

Derek's brows furrowed, impressive as they were. "That doesn't make sense."

"Well, obviously she's not human." Peter met her gaze. "I don't know what you are, yet, exactly, but once I recover my library, I'll start working on it."

"So you don't know either, then?" Derek stared at her too.

"Nope." She popped the p. 

"She doesn't smell not-human." Derek turned back to Peter, wrinkling his nose. "Not that that's solid proof of anything."

"I imagine my scent muddles it as well." Peter hummed. 

"All I know is that my father doesn't have a power like this and my mom's not around anymore to ask."

The wolves' gazes softened in sympathy, especially Derek, who looked almost wounded. 

"Regardless, my ethnology is of little concern. We've gotta get you two a place to live." 

"I've been living here." Derek said. "I'm fine."

Peter and Stiles were equally horrified. 

"I don't think so." Peter refuted immediately. "You're going to live with me."

"But-"

"No, absolutely not." Peter almost snarled. "I won't have it. I have my finances in order as of three days ago. All I need is a lease."

Derek ducked down and nodded. "Okay."

"Good." Peter kissed the crown of his head, glancing back up at Stiles. "Unfortunately, my dear, you'll be up on deck for that."

"I figured." She shrugged. "I've got a couple viewings already booked. Three apartments, two condos."

"Delightful." Peter squeezed Derek again. "What do you say to a proper meal, hmm? My treat."

* * *

Three days later seen Peter and Derek moved into a classy condo complex on the edge of the downtown core.

"What about Stiles?" Derek asked. 

"Hmm? What about her?"

"She's not coming too?" 

"She lives with her father."

Derek frowned. "She doesn't smell like she has any family."

Peter winced. "They're on the rocks, currently. She'll likely be over a lot anyway."

"Because she's your mate."

"Now, what ever gave you at idea, my boy?"

Derek raised a skeptical eyebrow. "She smells like you? You two know each other very well? Her powers, both times she's used them, have been to come to your defense?"

"I'll concede that you may, possibly, have a point."

Derek just shrugged and went back to organizing the kitchen, where he was putting all their newly acquired and washed cookware and utensils away. 

Peter considered it deeper, what it would mean for her to leave her father. He knew, without ever having been there, that Stiles was the anchor that kept the house together, and that without her, her father's life would fall apart. Stiles felt that responsibility keenly, as if she had to fill the role of both daughter and deceased wife. But it was unfair to expect a young woman to take care of her father so thoroughly when he should be the one looking after her still. 

Hell, Derek wasn't even his own child, but he would be damned if the young man was going to suffer alone, unsupported. 

Perhaps Derek had a point. If Stiles were gone, the Sheriff would have to fend for himself, to see what he lost in abandoning his daughter. 

| | | 

"Stiles."

She stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He sounded sober, which was a shock. Still, she had no more inclination to talk to him now than she did two weeks ago at the hospital. 

"You haven't been home."

"This is not news." She replied, blithe and airy. It wasn't - she slept in the hospital or on Melissa's couch the last three years.

"Where have you been?"

"Out, obviously."

"With Peter Hale."

"Yup."

"How do you know him?"

"He was next to Mom in the hospital."

"No, how do you _know_ know him? How old were you when he first approached you?"

She turned around to face him, face scrunched up in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Hale was hospitalized before your mother was. To know you well enough to recognize you, he had to have known you as a teenager."

Her mouth snapped shut. "Nope. We're not doing this."

"So you were." He stood from the table. "Were you underage? Did he proposition you?"

"This has been great." She sneered, glaring at him. "Glad we could have this talk. Should we pencil in another one in another three years from now where, again, you fundamentally miss the entire fucking point?"

His jaw hung open, aghast. 

"Cool. See you then." She turned away and went upstairs, quiet as a mouse. She came back down ten minutes later with a backpack full of clothes and toiletries, slamming the front door behind her without a word. 


End file.
